


A Bleached Heart

by Elliott_Fletcher



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Depression, Family Issues, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 02:38:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7827130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elliott_Fletcher/pseuds/Elliott_Fletcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(As Sirius Black, I am known for my infamous charm. As Padfoot, I am known for my depression.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bleached Heart

It was the one monster I could not slay; it was the one demon I could not banish; it was the threat that rang in my ears for eternity, and then when I thought all was saved, it echoed again.

(As Sirius Black, I am known for my infamous charm. As Padfoot, I am known for my depression.)

I am Sirius Black now, thoughts spinning, knees shaking behind a sheet of cloth like a nervous performer peaking through the curtains; I'm hiding, desperate, keeping a secret never small enough to conceal, and each step further on this path with my brother, the deeper I risk my secret.

"Bella was talking about confronting you," says Regulus, his eyes darting with the information spilled from his lips. He's saving me a bruise or a thousand, a swollen eye, and maybe a snapped knuckle; he matches my pace and then slows, speeds and stops, observing everyone as if they are pedestrians to his vehicle.

"I'll just have to avoid her, then," I say, and I glance at him, see myself except stronger, see my reflection in a clearer glass than all the broken mirrors around the castle.

"How have you been?" He asks, and we've reached the sixth floor hallway where the students' shouts are murmurs.

"Fine, Reg, real dandy. You?" My reply is specious yet so obviously false to myself, and he narrows his eyes like Mother, and inhales in preparation like he's seen Father do before a stern reprimanding. Regulus's voice doesn't stretch nearly as deep.

"Are you still sick?" His eyes are cloudy like mine, like bleached walls or a bleached heart. This evokes a bubbling anger in my throat.

"I'm not sick, I'm twisted." I say sharply, and as he opens his privileged mouth to protest, I continue, my eyes and jaw hardening like the steel of our familial eyes. "Sick makes it sound like there's a cure."

"But it can get better—it will!"

I click my tongue, and it scrapes against the sharp edge of a tooth. "It can't be fixed; it can only be covered up, swept under the rug. Wouldn't Mum be delighted."

"Sirius!" And he reached, but he withdrew, and he tried but conceded, not failing but not winning, either. I swallowed hard until I washed away the taste of blood, and then I turned on my heel, swift, back in the direction of Gryffindor Tower.

"Goodbye Regulus."


End file.
